Bruno, Giorno, & Leone
by thanksgoku
Summary: Previous to my last one, the origin of Giorno, Bruno, & Leone's relationship.


"_Abbacchio!_" Abbacchio heard from just in the hallway, from the room he'd nearly finished savagely shutting the door to, but in the exact tone of voice he'd grown so accustomed to obeying, and was, in any other situtation, glad to. "Come back!" came the same voice again, just as forcefully, through the hesitant gap between door and frame. Abbacchio did hesitate for moment, but only a few moments, and then obeyed.

He pulled the door wholly open again, stepped back inside the room nearly just as he'd exited it, that is not looking at the source of the order, at least until he was fully back in the room, and turned and shut it at his back, trying, now that he'd had a moment to prepare himself, to no longer betray his emotions. And he looked upon the same scene he'd felt such immediately intense scorn for, but at the same time wanted only, so desperately, to escape: it was Bruno and Giorno, together in the same wide bed- the same that Abbacchio had shared with Bucciarati so many times, so many moons? months? years? ago- Bucciarati utterly naked, only just no longer wrapped around Giorno still removing his purple suit. Abbacchio said nothing, and only stared at Bucciarati, trying to see nothing of him or the scene but his leader's eyes, and to keep his emotions as suppressed as he'd managed to before he turned around. He was sure there was a scowl on his face, but he knew there wasn't anything he could do about that.

Bruno watched his eyes, too, for a few moments, before saying, "Get undressed, Abbacchio," and Abbacchio would have left right then, would have disobeyed an order from his capo for the first time, and with good reason, if not for the fact that Bucciarati had uttered that last order with a completely different kind of force behind his words than Abbaccio had heard from the hallway. There was still the solid sound of Bucciarati's sense of authority in it, that Abbacchio had come to love to obey, but it was undercut by something else, that he could only process as strange in that moment, and only after he'd begun to unbutton his jacket realize that it was the old voice, or the humane edge of it, that Bucciarati had used to talk to him in as they, together and alone back when, fell asleep, or discussed lovely things.

Abbacchio was still angry, almost livid, but was also shaken by this new aurality, and felt some new emotion rising as the original high of rage continued to, nearly finish to, come down, slip away, and the residual anger recede even further in its absence. Without moving from where he was, he continued the complex process of undressing, drawn out maybe by the thought he was in but without any intention of his to impede it.

And Bucciarati & Giorno only watched; maybe not comfortably, but calmly, and did not return to their loving in the meantime. Though he couldn't watch both of them at once, or either for the entire time, Abbacchio was surprised to never once see Giorno look to Bucciarati, in any concern or confusion, for any explanation or reassurance. Like the capo, he only watched. "_Completely_," Bucciarati eventually added, although Abbacchio intended to anyway, and eventually he did finish, and stood completely naked, still just before the door, lit by the far window's twigh light.

"_Good_," Bucciarati went on shortly, still strongly, still with the same anger? disapproval? in his eyes, but with even more of that same low and strange affection which remained the only reason Abbacchio deigned to follow such instructions, capo or not. It was the true voice of Bruno's that he trusted, Abbacchio realized, because it was the very, love loaded sound of Bucciarati's complete and unswayable trust in him. Comforted by this, even if he didn't want to be, and even if he was not quite no longer pissed off yet, Abbacchio did not hesitate, when Bucciarati said to the equally silent Giorno, "Giorno, move over, there. Make some room," and then, "Alright Abbacchio, lay down," indicating minutely but surely to the new space of plain bedsheet between himself and the now half kneeling, half raised on his arm Giorno.

Abbacchio obeyed, like he knew now he always did and would, even if it was for new reasons, or rather for old reasons, and lay between his lover and the object of his disdain, with his back propping him half up against the delicately carved milanic bedframe. He looked Bucciarati's naked form over, some deep recess of his heart overjoyed to see the sight he had once so loved to spend hours watching, but he did not look at Giorno, did not want to see the same confusion that he himself still maybe felt and was trying to hide, nor did he want to see the same trust in command that he wanted, but rather alone with his love, to cherish.

And then, "Giorno," Bucciarati said, more gently than he'd spoken to Abbacchio, but also more plain, perhaps a tone that meant as much to the newbie as the other had meant to Abbacchio, "Suck his cock, if you would."

Somewhere inside, Abbacchio had figured that this was Bucciarati's gameplan ever since he'd ordered Abbachio to return, even if he had beat it down below his consciousness until now. He kept his eyes on Bucciarati and, not quite braced, awaited the coming mouth. But as far as he could tell Giorno did not move.

"_Giorno_," Bucciarati said again, but, still, immediately, nothing. Now Abbacchio really did not want to look at the newbie, afraid of seeing what vulnerable disgust? confusion? fear? he might find in the other's eye younger eyes, but he did look, and he found Giorno's eyes already locked with his, full of only one thing: resolution. Abbacchio realized what even Bucciarati, in his tense anticipation, had not: that they had not been waiting for Giorno, Giorno had been waiting for him. Not sure what he felt in his gut at the sight when the initial pang of surprise receded, but already mad and afraid that it might actually be genuine admiration, Abbacchio, with neither smile or grimace, but, he hoped, a face also full of his own resolve, nodded, once, toward Giorno's gaze. So Giorno repositioned himself and- more timidly than Abbacchio had expected from someone capable of such a resolute look- took Abbacchio into his mouth.

Bucciarati watched, still for a while, in what appeared to be relief or simple serenity, and only broke that stillness to stroke Giorno's hair a few times, and make one mysterious contact with Abbacchio's eyes, which, although Abbacchio, especially so distracted, couldn't quite read it, calmed his spirit nonetheless.

Somewhat quickly, Abbacchio came close to finishing, but he didn't want to, so instead he lowered his hand to Giorno's chin, and waveringly guided, suggested, it up and away from his wet cock until the pair's eyes met at equal level. "_Giorno_," Abbacchio said, as brusquely as he still ever spoke the upstart's name, but this time, he hoped also tainted with resolve and reality, "I have a rule, in life." A rule Bucciarati had witnessed numerous times prior. "I cannot hate someone who's had my cock in his mouth." At this, Abbacchio flashed a glance to Bucciarati, and finally saw the capo grinning exactly as he'd expected him to since he'd figured out his plan. But Giorno's gaze hadn't strayed at all; although his mouth had lost its tire and slack and the usual placid determination had returned to his face, he still watched Abbacchio with something unsure in his eyes.

"_Alright_," Giorno finally said, in an unusual voice that nearly matched Abbacchio's rough baritone, but he did not make any move to raise his chin from Abbacchio's cupped hand.

And then Abbacchio identified what he saw in Giorno's eyes, and smiled, however minutely, for the first time in what felt like a long while. It was confusion, but not the same kind that Abbacchio had been afraid Bucciarati's order could cause. It was the confusion, the slight disorientation of someone caught up in the excitement of discovering an answer, of uncovering the truth. The state of unknowing requisite for the desire to know. "I have another rule, Giorno. Or rather, a guiding principle in life," Abbacchio said from the smile as it grew a bit, although he still tried to keep the expression from betraying the confusing, ecstatic whirlwind picking up some dull speed in his heart, or the pleasure he now anticipated at seeing what Bucciarati's reaction would to this final surprise and conclusion. "I like to kiss someone after they've sucked my dick," and with that he raised, guided, demurely pulled Giorno's face, his light willing body trailing behind it, into a solid, lasting, kiss, and then, when Giorno did the same, another one.


End file.
